I thought I was supposed to be One.

I’m sitting here staring at my computer screen, and for the first time, I am angry at her.

(I am Barry Egan in Punch-Drunk Love. I am Butch Coolidge in Pulp Fiction. I am every angry character ever.)

I felt horrible, I felt like throwing up, and what made it worse was I had just eaten greasy pizza and have shitty gas to go with it.

And Mike drove her home from Homecoming tonight. And I was working. And someday, maybe I’m bluffing, I’m Going To Give Up.

And she knew that I would get angry, and she didn’t tell me, and I called her an hour later, and I heard a car door shut. I knew it was his. It sounded shitty. (I’m just saying that because I’m angry.)

And she bent the truth, to me. To Me.

Fuck.

(All is not anything.)

Thank you for letting me get this out. For she most likely Will Not call tonight. (And if she did, she’d probably call Mike too. Maybe even first or last.)

I feel like hurting something.

(And I am self-centered too, did you know that? I don’t care about what she’s going through with her friend right now, and that makes me even angrier. That I should care.

I do.)

I’m scared that if I ever gave up. She wouldn’t care at all.

(I’m staying up till 3 waiting for her call, and if she doesn’t, well fucking goodnight.)